3 a.m. Christmas Eve, the air is crisp,
the cold cuts neat
like the sweat that turns to ice,
a cold t-shirt underneath
thick sweater don’t suffice.
Like lost soles of homeless feet
trudging west,
walking the streets
3 a.m. Christmas Eve
No family, Santa, Jesus
to believe / (the reality of concrete)
The air is crisp,
the tears retreat
the long walk home
3 a.m. Christmas Eve...